Could It Be Him?

The text message stayed on my mind the whole two weeks I was healing. You should have died last night. I read it so many times the words started to blur. It was just a phone with a message from a number that didn’t exist when I tried to call it back.

Who could be that person?

***

Two weeks later, I walked back into the place that might have killed me, the air thick with perfume and cigarette smoke, the bass from the club already vibrating through the floor and up into my legs, making my skin prickle with the memory of everything I had lost. I pulled my uniform tight and kept my head down, trying to disappear into the noise.

Madam Jessica caught me before I even reached the locker room. She stepped into my path, looked me up and down once—her eyes slow, deliberate, taking in every inch, the way you look at something you’re trying to figure out—and turned toward her office without saying a word. I followed her in, my pulse already starting to pick up.

She didn’t sit. She stood behind her desk with her arms crossed and looked at me with something on her face I had not seen from her before, something tighter than her usual cool business look, sharper, like she had been waiting for this moment for a while and was deciding exactly how to play it.

“You crossed a line,” she said.

“Madam, I didn’t — I mean, the man I slept with, he wasn’t even—“

“You think you can fool me?” She cut me off and stepped around the desk and stopped right in front of me, her voice flat. “Hmm?”

“I’m trying to tell you it wasn’t—“

“Don’t play dumb with me, Alessia.” She leaned forward, close enough that I could smell her perfume—something expensive, floral, sharp, with a sweetness underneath that made my stomach turn—and her eyes stayed locked on mine. “Lorenzo is mine. You understand that? Mine. I have been building that for years. Years. And you walk in there one night and think you can just—” She stopped herself. Straightened up. Smoothed the front of her jacket. “You got me?”

I just stared at her.

“Besides.” She looked me up and down slowly, eyes moving from my face all the way down and back up, and I felt it like a slow burn across my skin because she was measuring me, weighing me against something I couldn’t see. “You are not even his type. Let’s be real clear about that.”

I closed my mouth.

“And I know you’ll still play innocent, but I know you are just a filthy whore.” She tilted her head and kept her eyes on mine, her voice dropping lower until it was almost a whisper. “Let me tell you something maybe you don’t know yet—don’t get any idea that you mean something to him. You’re probably just one of his new temporary pleasures. That’s all that was. So watch yourself.” She turned and picked up the key card from her desk and held it out flat, cold, until I took it, the plastic smooth and cool against my fingers. “And if you’re sitting here expecting something from him — anything at all — you might not have a job here by next week.”

I took the key card out of her hand, my fingers brushing against hers for just a second.

She sat down and opened something on her desk, the papers rustling.

“Room 7. He’s already there. You go in, you do your job, and you keep it professional this time.” Her eyes stayed on mine. “You do not sleep with him again. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Good.” She looked back down at her desk. “Go.”

I walked out into the corridor and stood there for a second with the key card in my hand, the edges digging into my palm, the plastic already warm from my skin.

It had been more than a month since that night, and if she really thought something happened between me and Lorenzo, why bring it up now? That should have been the very next day, not a month later, because something must have changed—something happened between then and now that made her walk up to me today like that, her jaw tight, her eyes sharp.

She was the one who pushed me toward him in the first place. She was the one who put the assignment on me, handed me the access, told me to go. And now she was sitting in her office acting like I had gone behind her back and taken something that belonged to her, something she had been building for years, and I didn’t understand what had shifted.

And honestly the whole thing was absurd anyway, because whatever she thought happened that night—it wasn’t with Lorenzo. Everybody in this building knew Lorenzo Moretti did not take his mask off, not for anyone, not ever, and the man I was with that night had no mask, bare face, nothing covering it, and I could still remember the way his hands felt on my skin, the warmth of his breath, the weight of him beside me. So whatever Jessica was so worked up about, she had the wrong night and the wrong man, and I had no idea how to explain that to her without making the whole thing worse.

So I didn’t. I just walked.

I turned into the east corridor and my phone buzzed in my pocket, the vibration humming against my thigh, and I pulled it out. Chloe.

“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice down.

“Alessia, detectives came to the apartment looking for you. They were asking questions and left a card.” She paused. “What’s their deal? What explanation they even need from you?”

I kept walking and switched the phone to my other ear, my heart already starting to pick up, a dull thud behind my ribs. “It’s nothing, I’ll handle it.”

“Nothing?” Her voice went up. “Alessia, you hiding something from me? Because detectives showing up at my door asking for you is not nothing.”

“Chloe, I promise I will explain everything when I get back. I’m at work right now, I can’t get into it.”

“You better explain everything. All of it. I’m not playing with you.”

“I will. I’ll call you later.”

“Don’t disappear on me.”

“I won’t.”

I hung up, shoved the phone back in my pocket, and kept moving—and turned the corner and walked straight into someone.

His hands shot out and caught my arms before I hit the ground, his grip strong and steady, his fingers wrapping around my biceps and holding me in place, and I grabbed the front of his jacket to steady myself and looked up.

Tall. Dark suit. Something covering the upper half of his face.

Lorenzo Moretti.

I let go of his jacket and stepped back, and his hands dropped from my arms but neither of us moved because the space between us had gone tight somehow, charged with something I couldn’t name, something that made my skin prickle and my breath catch.

Then his scent hit me and my feet just stopped.

I didn’t know what it was, couldn’t place it—just this feeling that it wasn’t new, that my body had been this close to this exact smell before and was reacting to it now before I could do anything about it, my skin prickling, my breath catching, my stomach clenching like it remembered something my mind had lost.

This feels familiar.

I told myself I was tired, told myself I was stressed and needed to get it together, but the feeling wouldn’t leave because it was in my chest now, warm and insistent.

“Sorry, sir. I wasn’t paying attention.”

He said nothing, didn’t step back, didn’t look away—just stood there with his eyes on me, steady and unreadable, and the silence stretched between us until it felt like something solid, something I could reach out and touch.

Then my necklace snagged on his jacket. I felt the chain pull tight against my throat and reached up fast but my fingers slipped, clumsy and slow, and the chain came loose and the ring dropped and hit the floor between us with a sound that was too loud in the quiet hallway, a small metal clink that echoed off the walls.

“I’m so sorry — how clumsy of me, I’m so sorry, sir—“

I bent down to grab it. His hand got there first, fingers closing around it before mine could reach it, and I felt the heat of his hand near mine for just a second, the warmth radiating off his skin.

He stood back up slowly and held the ring between his fingers and turned it over, looking at it. Not a quick glance. He actually studied it, turning it, taking his time with it, his thumb brushing across the metal, and something in the way he handled it made my chest tighten because it was the way someone handles something they recognize, something they have held before.

I straightened up and held my hand out. “Sir, I can take it back—“

He ignored my hand.

He stepped behind me, and both hands came to my shoulders and turned me around so my back was to him, his palms firm and warm through the fabric of my shirt, and I could feel the heat of his body behind me before I felt anything else. His fingers pushed my hair to one side, slow and deliberate, and I felt the warmth of his breath before I felt the chain—then the chain touched the front of my neck and his hands moved to the back and he fastened it himself, his fingertips pressing lightly against the back of my neck while he worked the clasp, and I went completely still because I could feel every point of contact like a small fire, his skin against mine, the metal cool against my throat, his breath warm on my ear.

“Sir, I can put it back myself, I really don’t need you to—“

He was already done.

He didn’t step away. His voice came from right behind my ear, low and close, and I felt the warmth of his words on my skin, on the curve of my neck, on the shell of my ear.

“You better wear this anywhere you go.”

Before I could turn around his hand came up flat against the wall right beside my head and his body stepped in and I was against the wall, the plaster cool through my shirt and his body close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him, a solid warmth that pressed against my back, my shoulders, the backs of my arms. He didn’t grab me, didn’t rush—just moved in until there was almost no space between us and stopped there, and I could smell him again, clean and warm and something underneath that made my stomach clench, something familiar that I couldn’t name.

I looked up at him.

He looked down at my mouth.

His other hand came up and his thumb pressed against my bottom lip and dragged across it slow, back and forth, the pad of his thumb rough and warm, and his face came down closer and I felt his breath hit my nose, warm and steady, and he was close enough that I could feel every exhale on my face, could see the texture of his mask, the line of his jaw beneath it, the way his throat moved when he swallowed. He didn’t close the distance. Just stayed right there, that close, not moving, and the air between us was thick with something I couldn’t name, something that made my chest tight and my hands shake.

“Sir—“

“Don’t talk.”

I pressed my lips together, and his thumb kept moving across my lip, slow, like he had all the time in the world, like he was memorizing the shape of it, the feel of it.

“You stayed on my mind.” He said it low, steady, and I could feel each word against my skin, warm and deliberate. “Since that night.”

I kept my eyes on his face and said nothing, because I didn’t trust my voice.

“I don’t repeat things.” His thumb stopped moving but stayed on my lip, and his eyes held mine for a long moment before dropping back to my mouth. “But you. You not forgettable.”

My heart was going so hard I could feel it in my throat, a pulse that matched the bass still coming through the walls somewhere far away, a rhythm that had nothing to do with anything but us.

“I don’t forget what’s mine.”

“Sir.” My voice came out in a whisper, barely there, barely mine. “I think you got the wrong person.”

He didn’t move back, didn’t take his hand away—his breath was still on my face and his eyes were still on my mouth and he just stayed there, so close that I could see the texture of his mask, the line of his jaw beneath it, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.

The question came out before I could stop it.

“Have we met before?”

He went completely still.

Hand stopped. Breath stopped. Everything stopped, and he stayed like that for a long moment, his body rigid against mine, and I could feel the tension in him like a wire pulled tight, like something in him was fighting itself.

Then he stepped back.

Dropped his hand. Straightened his jacket with both hands, a slow, deliberate movement. Fixed his left cuff then his right, the fabric smooth under his fingers. Looked down and picked up the key card I hadn’t noticed I’d dropped, and when he held it out I reached for it and his fingers crossed mine for one second before he let go, and I felt that touch all the way down to my bones, down to the center of me.

He looked at me straight.

“Never mind.”

He turned and walked. Three steps. Stopped. Didn’t turn around.

“Tell Jessica I’m not in the mood today.”

He kept walking and didn’t look back, his footsteps fading down the corridor until there was nothing, and I stood there in the silence with my lip still warm from his thumb and my heart still pounding and the ring pressed against my chest under my shirt.

I wanted to chase him, to demand answers, but my legs wouldn’t move—not from fear, but from the weight of everything that just passed between us, the heat of his hands, the press of his body, the words he had said that I couldn’t stop replaying.

Then I heard it.

“Enjoying yourself?”

I turned sharply.

Madam Jessica was standing at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, her back against the wall. Her smile was wide and sharp, like she had just watched the whole thing and was already deciding what to do with it, her eyes glinting in the low light.

She pushed off the wall and walked toward me slow, her heels clicking on the floor, each step deliberate, each step bringing her closer until she stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell her perfume again, floral and sharp and sweet all at once.

“I told you to keep it professional.” Her voice was low, measured. “Seems like you don’t listen so well.”

“We didn’t do nothing.” My voice came out higher than I wanted, the words tumbling over each other because I could feel her watching me, measuring me, deciding. “It was him. He was the one who touched me first.”

I shoved the key card toward her. “Here. Take it.”

She didn’t reach for it, just stood there with her arms crossed, her eyes on my face. I let my hand drop and stepped back, my pulse hammering against my ribs.

“And you got it wrong,” I said, my jaw tight. “Lorenzo isn’t the man I slept with that night. I was drugged. I barely remember his face. But I know it wasn’t him.”

I turned to walk away, the words already leaving my mouth, but her hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, her fingers digging in hard, her nails pressing into my skin.

“You should have manners when you talk to me.” Her voice was low, calm, and that made it worse because calm meant she was in control. “Don’t talk to me with your back turned.”

I yanked my arm, but she held on, her grip tightening. Heat rushed up my chest, and I could feel my face getting hot.

“I thought I could trust you,” she said, her eyes boring into mine, her face inches from my face. “But you’re just like the other girls here. Always thinking you’re special.”

I pulled against her grip, my wrist aching where her fingers pressed into the bone. “Listen, I’m really tired of this. Do you think I wanted it? Huh? I didn’t even reach the room you told me to go to. Someone drugged me. I barely remember anything from that night.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Who drugged you?”

I pulled hard and my wrist slipped free, the skin already red where her fingers had been, and I rubbed the spot and let out a short, bitter laugh.

“That doesn’t matter right now,” I said, “because it won’t change anything.”

She stared at me for a long moment, something shifting in her face, something I couldn’t read.

“You really think I’m just some cheap whore who hooks up with every guy?” I kept going, my voice rising because I was tired, because I was scared, because I had lost too much already. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what kind of girl I am. And by the way—you were the one who told me to satisfy him. What did you mean by that? Just look at him, huh?”

I let out another laugh, sharp and hard, and it echoed off the walls.

“Though it wasn’t him. I can tell jealousy is driving you insane.”

She didn’t answer, and the silence stretched between us, thick and heavy, the air between us charged with something dangerous.

Then her voice came out slower, thoughtful, like she was working something out in her head.

“Whoever is behind this might be…” She paused, something flickering in her eyes. “That might be that bitch Talia.”

I just stared at her.

“So you don’t even know who you slept with,” she said.

“Yeah, I don’t,” I said flatly.

She stepped closer, her body almost touching mine, and her hand came up and took a piece of my hair between her fingers, rolling it slow, studying it, like she was looking for something in it, something that would tell her why.

“I’m wondering,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “what’s so special about you that he took off his mask.”

Then she pulled.

“Aah—that hurts!” I grabbed at my hair, but she had already let go, stepping back, smoothing her own hair with a slow, deliberate movement.

“Let’s say it was just an accident.” She smoothed her jacket, straightened her collar, looked me dead in the eyes. “But get away from him at your own risk.”

She turned and walked away, her heels clicking steady down the corridor, each step fading until there was nothing but silence.

I stood there, scalp stinging, heart pounding, my wrist still red where her fingers had been.

I don’t forget what’s mine.

His words echoed in my head, and Jessica’s jealousy wasn’t just about control—it was real, it was deep, it was the kind of thing that got people hurt. She was threatened, and threatened people did dangerous things.

And then the other words came back, clear as if he’d just whispered them in my ear again, his breath warm on my skin.

I missed kissing these juicy lips.

I pressed my fingers to my mouth, still warm from his thumb, still tingling from the pressure, and I could feel the shape of his words in my chest.

Could it be true? I whispered to myself, watching the empty hallway where Jessica had disappeared. The man I slept with… could it really be Lorenzo?

I didn’t have an answer. But something in my chest had shifted, and I couldn’t pretend anymore that I didn’t feel it.